Since my arrival in Belfast, those images would reassure me. They were simple, and beautiful. Like those doors that would open and aid our escape. That late-night cup of tea handed to us by a woman who’d stumbled on us sneaking through her garden. That mimed confession taken by a priest when the police had followed me into his church. That black sweater thrown over my shoulders by a neighbour while I was keeping watch on a November street.
— My son no longer needs it where he’s gone.
— Go raibh maith agat.
The man smiled at my thanking him in Irish. He looked at me more closely.
— Well now! A reinforcement from the Free State!
And then he laughed, tying the knitted woollen sleeves over my chest.
An English reconnaissance plane was flying overhead. The children gave it the finger, hoping it would crash into the barricade of tethered balloons that towered over the city. The Falls Road had returned to its usual sparse traffic. The footpaths were packed with families. In a few minutes there were no more Fianna, rebels or demonstrators to be seen. Only the residents hurrying home for their tea.
Tom Williams had just been captured by the British, along with five men from C Company. The 2nd Battalion of the Belfast Brigade had just lost one of its leaders. We had assembled at headquarters around the deserted boxing ring. As a precaution, Danny had only lit a night light. News was flooding in from all over, spreading through the neighbourhood. Every new thing we heard was worse than what we already knew.
In order to safeguard our march, Tom and his soldiers had opened fire on a police patrol on Kashmir Road. Tom was wounded. He had given the order to retreat, but the police had chased after them like hunting dogs. In Cawnpore Street, our men took advantage of open doors. One policeman forced his way into a house. His name was Patrick Murphy and he was a Catholic. He lived on the Falls Road and had nine children. Everyone knew him. He was shot down in the middle of the living room.
— He was a dirty fucking peeler! shouted Danny Finley.
But all the same, he was a Catholic.
— A fucking traitor! Danny growled.
We nodded our heads, but our Fianna hearts were conflicted. The IRA had just assassinated one of our own. Or near enough. A Catholic who was feeding his family as best he could.
— By shooting us in the back, is that it?
Sure enough. But all the same. He was of our flesh. The British skin was an animal hide. Their blood wasn’t the same colour as ours. It was soldier blood. Thicker, darker, dirtier. By shooting at Murphy, we had just opened our own veins.
Danny shook me by the shoulders. He asked me to look him in the eye. Better than that! Directly in the eye! And what could I see there? A murderer of Irishmen? No! Of course not! I had to pull myself together, and to learn. I had to go back to the beginning again. This wasn’t a war between Catholics and Protestants! Wolfe Tone, the father of Irish Republicanism, was a Protestant. Well then, what was the difference? A Protestant could join the IRA, a Catholic could dress up as a king’s soldier. Well then, who was our enemy? The Protestant IRA man or the Catholic wearing the British uniform? Which one did we have to fight?
— Do you understand that, Tyrone Meehan? You’re fighting for the Irish Republic, not for Rome! You left those priests of yours on the other side of the border. So stop mixing everything up, please!
There were about twenty of us scouts in the room. Danny looked from one to the other to see if everything he’d said had been understood.
— There are fewer Catholics in the RUC than there are fingers on one hand. Those who join up know the risks involved. Murphy will serve as an example.
Then he straightened up, legs apart and hands behind his back. And he assumed his voice of command.
— Na Fianna Éireann, stand at attention!
We straightened up, arms rigid at our sides and chins raised.
— Na Fianna Éireann, on your knees!
We knelt in a single motion, solemn and dignified. All of us together on the cement.
He knelt in turn and closed his eyes.
— In the name of the Father, and of the Son…
And then we prayed aloud for the grey soul of Patrick Murphy.
The six IRA combatants involved in the incident were sentenced to death, but only Thomas Williams was executed. Before the judges, my friend claimed responsibility for the operation and for the fatal shots. Although he had been wounded and was choking, prostrated by an asthma attack, and although he had dropped his weapon, he assumed all responsibility. The Irish government appealed for clemency. The Vatican waited in vain for an act of mercy. Tom was hanged at nineteen years of age on 2 September 1942, in the courtyard of Crumlin Road Gaol in Belfast. Buried like a dog inside the compound itself, on prison ground, without a cross, without a plaque, without anything personal. The British deprived us of his body.
— I met the bravest of the brave this morning. Tom Williams walked to that scaffold without a tremor in his body. The only people who were shaking were us and the hangman, Father Alexis had recounted to the inmates gathered in the prison chapel.
— Don’t pray for Tom Williams, the chaplain added, pray to him, for at this moment Tom is a saint in heaven.
So Tom guided us.
All over the city, groups attacked the police and the RUC with bricks. A police station was burned down. At Crossmaglen, thirty IRA óglaigh attacked the British army base to kidnap an officer and hang him. The operation failed, but a policeman was killed. Two others were shot in County Tyrone. A fourth died in Belfast while pursuing some men who were planting bombs. We were lost, maddened with rage, drunk on vengeance. On the front page of the Belfast Telegraph an outraged journalist wrote of how two Republicans had challenged some American soldiers by giving them the Nazi salute.
Father Alexis also told of how Tom was whistling on his way to meet death. He was whistling ‘God Save Ireland’, our old national hymn. The one we would sing at home, in the pubs, during marches, in stadia. The one we would hum softly when we passed British patrols. The one we would bellow until we were out of breath, our hands full of stones.
‘God Save Ireland!’ said the heroes!
‘God Save Ireland!’ said they all.
Whether on the scaffold high
Or the battlefield we die,
Oh, what matter when for Erin dear we fall!
My brother Seánie was interned in October 1942. No evidence, no trial, no sentence. They were isolating headstrong men. On 3 January 1943, it was my turn, and Danny Finley’s. For a week I had pains in my arms — the left one from being gripped by the policeman, the right from my mother clinging on to me. Hostility, love, two black stains bruising my flesh in equal measure.
They came in the middle of the night. I rolled down the stairs, dragged by the hair and by my shirt collar. I was sleeping fully clothed, I was waiting for them. Wee Kevin was crying, Brian and Niall were crying, baby Sara was howling in her cradle. A policeman whacked me in the eye with the butt of his gun a few times. He beat my mother on the arms and in the face to force her to let go. She fell, her hands clasped over her mouth. My mother on the ground and my first true cry of vengeance. The one that makes you get up and fight. That hits you in your gut when your heart hesitates. My mother on the ground. Her lips, my face, her saliva and my blood. She had pulled out her rosary and handed it to me with both hands. She was roaring at the Virgin as they carried me away. For the first time, I called on hatred to give me strength.